I drove my car right up to the snow-covered driveway of Emma Lewis' home, that's up a hill of a desolate burrow in Quincy. I jumped out of my car, my revolver drawn, as I rushed to the bashed-in front door of the porch. It was the same MO I found at Richard Gallmore's place.

"Clara! Clara! Are you here?" I shouted, shining my flashlight down the empty, quiet living room, seeing furniture turned and smashed in the struggle, along with a few bullet casings that I glance at for a second. They seem to have come from a .32 handgun. My nose cringed with a heavy, oppressive smell of copper and iron and an acrid stench, similar to vomit, coming from the kitchen, an all too familiar scent. I go to the kitchen and shine a light on a black pool of frozen blood.

I've seen many murders in my time with the PD, but this is something else, something I dread to remember. Emma Lewis was displayed above the kitchen floor in a twisted, sick mess. Her arms and legs were snapped and broken and twisted. Both her wrists and ankles were tied by small cut-out lengths of her smaller intestines, wrapped around in knots, on an old wooden pole of a whaling harpoon. It didn't ease my dread. Her right hand is broken at the wrist from her forearm, still holding tightly the grip of a pistol she used to defend herself. Her bottom jaw ripped wide open, and her tongue was missing.

The harpoon her corpse is tied to was impaled right down her throat and went out between her legs. The broad, rusted steel head stabbed into the floor, pinning her in place like a message or a warning. Her eyes smashed into its sockets. In its place are black stone spheres that reflect the shine off my flashlight, making her new eyes look pale yellow. The middle of her abdomen was sliced open laterally. Her entrails and intestines spilt out, hanging over her lower stomach and thighs, slathered on the floor, ten feet in all directions, making an eleven-point star sigil with many bloody lines and strange ritualistic hieroglyphs.

I immediately vomited at the horrific sight of Emma Lewis, my mind racing with thoughts of dread! What could have done this to her? What monster was capable of such methodical contorting tortures on the human body? I stumbled onto the floor. My weak, shaking knees couldn't hold my weight up any longer, dropping my flashlight and gun. I crawl in my vomit and looked up to see the house phone on the wall, slightly tilted with the earpiece dangling off the hook. I summoned the strength to pull myself up to the wall and to the phone, where I hang up and pick it up again to make a call.

"Hello, Operator?" relieved to hear a friendly, familiar voice.

"O-Operator! T-This is Detective John Lancy! T-there's been a-a murder at 109th Street Quincy! S-Send backup! Now!" I shouted out to the operator in panicked hysteria, looking back to the nightmarish sight that was Emma Lewis.

It took thirty minutes for the Police to show up; three cop cars pull in, an ambulance and a few other investigators. I sat outside of Emma Lewis' house, on the sidewalk, where I wrapped myself in my trench coat, hiding the fearful shiver and shakes my body struggles to control. The investigators took pictures of Emma Lewis's contorted body and the strange ritual symbols she was impaled into.

"Christ, Lancy! What the hell did you get yourself into?" bemoaned fellow Detective Frank Henry Webster, a newer recruit to the PD, age twenty-two, sharp kid too. I looked up as he approached my back; his young face held a look of sheer disbelief and horror at what he has seen, with a lit cigarette resting limply on the corner of his lips.

Frank is tasked to take pictures of the crime scene; his face is pale, and his blue eyes have a disturbed gaze, reflecting the horrific sight of Emma Lewis. He held two steaming tin cups of coffee in his shaking, gloved hands and gave me one. I didn't care if he noticed my hands trembling as I reached out of my coat for the offered cup.

"I have no idea what or who killed her. B-But, I will try my best to find out who is responsible and get to the bottom of this." I stated foolishly while looking at him, trying to put a brave face on.

"I don't know, Lancy. I'd walk away from this case if I were you. This shit ain't natural. The way she was killed, my god! What kind of sick fuck are we dealing with here?" Frank said in a tone filled with horror, taking his smoke out of his mouth, placing it between his fingers, and letting a grey cloud out from his lips and nose. We both heard a loud thump behind us. We paused and watched silently as the ambulance team removes Miss Lewis' body from her home. She was on a gurney covered in a white sheet, now stained in her blood.

Behind the ambulance team, out of the illuminated household, is Chief O'Bannon, who stands with other cops and detectives, consulting a few who lost their nerves and have to help move Emma Lewis' body from that impaled position. They were all just as shaken up as I and Frank. I see one of the poor bastards empty his stomach, heaving over the railing and onto the front lawn.

"I'm gonna need a strong drink after this night, Johnny. Luckily you won't be looking at her mug shots all night in the black room. Shit like this will haunt you for months."

I couldn't argue with Frank; as a matter of fact, I didn't envy his position either. But he has a job to do, as did I. After I recuperated from this night, I'll get right back on the case for sure. I thought so naively.

"Night, Johnny. I'll see you tomorrow morning." And with that, Frank left me alone on the curb.

I watched Frank walk away and go into his Oldsmobile Sedan, starting it up. I brought my shaking hands up, sipping a warm cup of coffee as wisps of steam rose from the rim. Yet the warmth cannot settle down my frazzled nerves as I heard footsteps approaching from behind. Being jumpy after this night, I turned immediately to see who it is.

It is Police Chief Daniel O'Bannon, who came to consult me on my missing person's cases. I never liked Chief O'Bannon. Being Irish, he has a soft side for the Irish Mob that ran some parts of Boston with impunity, thanks to him. Though he is known as a local legend, he fought in the Civil War; the first time he was battle-tested was in Gettysburg and marched with Sherman setting fires to Atlanta on up to Richmond. After the Civil War, Chief O'Bannon went into police work, yet somehow, he maintains a high-rolling lifestyle that most of us under him can't afford.

"So, your missing person's case led ya up to here, ay Lancy?" Chief O'Bannon's voice has a cocky Irish accent that I find annoying, and knowing how crooked he is, I hated it.

"Yeah, Clara Gallmore told me to call or come here if I have any questions regarding the case of her missing father," I stated tiredly, looking up to Chief O'Bannon. I detest his face and his beady little green eyes that were constantly squinting and hard to focus on. Chief O'Bannon is the kind of guy that you couldn't tell their motives so easily, and he hid them well, with a calm, confident small smug smile on his wrinkled lips.

"Well, from the looks of poor Miss Lewis, that questioning won't be possible now," O'Bannon said in a sardonic manner and watched the ambulance load up Emma Lewis' corpse and drive down the hill.

'I got two missing person's cases and a murder now on my hands, with only one lead, a name. What the hell did I get myself into?' I cursed myself in my head.

"These missing person's cases will be taken off your hands, Detective Lancy. You've done enough. You should go back to your flat and rest for now." Chief O'Bannon insisted, yet I have a sneaking suspicion of him and the force. This didn't sit well with me.

I drove back to my apartment flat, built near Chinatown. I busted a few laundry mats in the Chinatown Area two years ago that were running a bootlegging business for the Italian Mafia from out of New York City. But I am a fan of their food, even though I can't pronounce the names of the dishes half the time. I always have Mister Chong's Peking Duck when I can. Man, I loved how they cooked those ducks. Making the skin so crispy and the fatty meat so tender that it falls off the bones, with that strange sweet bean paste with soy sauce. I would eat ducks like that all day for the rest of my life if I could. Even when walking to my flat, I could smell the mixed, warm aromas of their cooking wharfing through my apartment block, conjured up in their heavy iron woks, placed over roaring gas fires that made my mouth water and stomach crave Peking Duck.

I enter my apartment, bills and notices piled on the floor under the mail slot, I haven't gotten to paying the landlord this week, and the electric bill is overdue again, the heater bill too, along with water and my dry-cleaning bill from miss Lin's Dry Cleaning Laundry Mat. Though they didn't bother to send goons to strong-arm me, I, being a member of the police, such things could see them in the clink, so I have that to protect me from my debt collectors.

I walk right up to my messy work desk and sit. Even when I am not at my office in the PD building, I am still doing paperwork. I have boxes stacked and stuffed with files of past cases and some cold cases here and there, which I was still looking into. They are mostly missing-person cases of fair-looking young country broads who ran away to the big cities on the coast, hoping to make it big in the theatre or go down to Broadway in New York, with dreams of becoming a famous singer and actress. Many cases belonged to small children, boys and girls ranging in age from 3 to 13. They were snatched up from their schools, parks, or the backyards of their homes.

I have the last letter from my father before he passed away in jail. Gramps gave it to me and told me to read it when I felt ready. The envelope the letter was in was thick and lumpy, stained a yellowish-brown over the years. I never bothered opening my father's last letter. I don't know why I kept it around. Probably just a keepsake to remind me of the hate I have had for that failure of a so-called father. Eventually, maybe if I cared one day, I'd open up that letter and probably use my father's last words as toilet paper and flush it away.

I sat at my desk in bewilderment, piecing back together what had happened to me tonight. I looked at my watch, and it read 9:33 p.m. The night is still young, and I have a lot going on in my mind. I know I couldn't sleep after seeing that twisted, horrific display that once was Emma Lewis, and I feel terrible for Frank, who has to develop her photos. I opened up a drawer and reached into it, taking out the bottle of bourbon I was given two months ago by an underground acquaintance named Gerald. The thing is bootleg made alright, it tasted like it was made in someone's bathtub, but I didn't care. Strong drinks like these are hard enough to go down and will wash away the bad memories. In situations like these, hard liquor was my go-to when shit got stressful and would help me sleep through the nightmares I was bound to have.

I twist the top off the bottle, pour a shot's worth into my empty brown stained coffee mug, and slugged it down. Man, it was hard, but it was all good! Thoughts cleared, I took out my notepad and reviewed my meeting with Immon Salman Al-Hazar. I picked up the phone receiver on my desk and the earpiece up to my right ear, speaking to the operator.

It is 12 a.m. over Boston. The graveyard shift has begun. Not a lot of normal folks are up at this hour. There are your usual night owls who're going out to a party in hidden speakeasies and jazz clubs we haven't busted yet, along with the eccentric twitchy fellows who prowl the narrow streets and back alleyways.

It is coming to 12:30 a.m. I am standing around, waiting in the middle of Public Garden Park, in the dark, surrounded by still black trees with branches thick with icicle spikes that can impale a poor bastard who stood under them. There are a few electrical lamps that illuminated the trees. The shadows it cast took on new evil forms, like they became clawed hands of black demons, coming to snatch up a poor fellow from below their feet and drag'em down to hell.

Funny how at night, things like a lovely park take on a more sinister atmosphere. Usually, folks bring their kids here to feed the swans and pigeons bread crumbs. But with the recent sporadic reporting of child kidnappings near parks around the Boston Area and state wide, those days of family picnicking and children frolicking carefree in nature are long gone. Not many people come out here on cold winter nights, aside from a few homeless vagrants sleeping on the benches wrapped in moth-eaten rags that pass off as clothing and wandering drunks singing in slurs and stinking of cheap booze, trying to forget past pains that they probably have a death wish. Yet the alcohol made them immune to the brutal cold; their lonesome, slurred voices sang to the immense emptiness of the darkness that accompanied them.

He finally arrives, from the south, from Boylston Street, Rudi "The Rat" Zanetti, an Italian from New York, who came with the Masseria Crime Family up here two years ago. He has since then stayed around for mutual business opportunities, as he puts it. Though he is a young kid of twenty and short standing at a height of five-foot-three, he isn't one to be crossed. He carries with him a 1911 and a stiletto knife. He had used both when his business ventures were crossed with less unfortunate fellows. He is the type of rat bastard who didn't seem to not mind his own business and nosed about in other people's business, extorting them.

"Evening, Detective," Rudi greets me with that nastily Brooklyn accent.

"Evening Rudi, shall we take a walk?" I asked, offering to walk with him.

"So, any information on this guy, Victor Warner von Ostermann the 2nd?" I began our casual conversation.

"Yea, I had my informants come back to me with the info, though my mind is a little foggy on the details," Rudi says, scratching his left cheek; a sly smile grew on his lips. An annoyed sigh left my lips, halting our walk as I took out my wallet and produced a clean, crisp Jackson that he quickly snatched up and put into the pocket of his brown leather jacket.

"Yeah, now I remember. It's all coming back to me. Ostermann is this guy up north who lives off the coast of Maine in one of those boneyard islands. He only comes to Boston once a month, from what I hear. All the Mob Bosses from New York and all over New England have been trying to get him to lease his port in the town of Saint Hildegard, built on the Island of New Bremen, for their business. But so far, he hasn't bit into any of the offers made. They say he's a rich guy, a millionaire; the family was some rich royals from the Holy Roman Empire in the 15th century. They bought the Island of New Bremen from the Natives and established a colony before the American Revolution." Rudi explained, and I nod my head, my perplexed eyes taking in this strange, unheard-of historical information that isn't public knowledge.

"What's got ya interested in Ostermann, Johnny?" Rudi asked, having that inquisitive glint in his grey eyes that gleamed like silver dollars whenever something intrigued him.

"I've been taken off a double missing person's case and a brutal homicide that happened two days ago," I explained.

"So, is he involved?" Rudi asked.

"Yeah, started off with the Daughter of Richard Gallmore named Clara Gallmore, who asked me to find her father. I went to the scene of the crime, gathered my evidence and information, and went to the Apophis Café and got more info there, but just a name alone. Though I wanted to ask Clara Gallmore about Ostermann, she wasn't at her friend's house, a young gal by the name of Miss Emma Lewis. When I got to the Lewis residence, it was the same MO I found at Richard Gallmore's place, yet Lewis' body was in the kitchen..." I paused, stopping in my walk as I saw the image of Emma Lewis' defiled and mutilated corpse displayed like some ritual sacrifice on the kitchen floor. Her new black eyes, as bright as gold, flashed before my sight along with that god-awful evil image of burning wrathful eyes glowering at me from a faraway dark place beyond all light and human sight.

Rudi snaps his finger at me, and I blinked my blank eyes that are staring off to space, "Hey, you alright? You spaced out on me there for a moment, Johnny. Looked like ya has seen a ghost just now, your whole face went pale as bone, and your eyes became black as coal..." Rudi asks, concerned; his tone is scared as he looked up at me. It is the first time Rudi has seen me like this. The army trained me to suppress my emotions and nervousness, but something just now broke all those facades I had worked so hard to maintain for all those years. Not even the hells of the trenches made me feel like such a wreck that I am now.

I shook my head and hid my face in my trembling hands for a moment, clearing the unwanted emotions. "Yeah, I am alright. J-Just that, I never saw in my life a corpse displayed in such a vile manner." I answered, recovering my senses.

"How did she die?" Rudi asked as I can sense a hint of his morbid curiosity in his tone.

"Her arms and legs were busted up and were twisted around the pole of a whaler's harpoon she was impaled with. Her lower jaw bone busted wide, and her tongue was removed and missing. Her eyes smashed into her skull and were replaced with two polished black stone spheres that fit perfectly in the sockets. Her stomach was sliced open, gutted like an animal, and her intestines and entrails made a strangely designed sigil of some kind. It was long frozen over when I got there." I answered back coldly, glancing down at Rudi.

I watched him shiver at the detail that his face went pale, riddled with horrific disgust.

"Jumping, Josephat!" Rudi shouted with shock, "What the hell? Who the hell would do such butchery to a gal?" Rudi asks in a loud, angry voice.

I shrugged my shoulders, letting out a light sigh as I continued to walk forward on the dark path before me, "That's why Mister Ostermann interests me. Though, as of now, by order of that crook O'Bannon, I am officially off the case until further notice. I don't trust O'Bannon. Frankly, I can't trust anyone in this goddamn city. With two missing persons and a murder case, my mind is running wild with suspicion, and I will have to go it alone." I said, my eyes narrowing hard as I ponder my options for a moment.

"I take it that's the reason why you still bother with this case, that Clara girl, isn't it?" Rudi inquired.

"Yeah," I confessed sadly, remembering Clara's frightened, nervous look and how she reminded me of my mother.

"She is the reason why I still bother with this case and to find Ostermann," I said solemnly, looking upon the frozen pond while pondering upon the golden glimmer of the lamp's lights reflecting on the dark surface. It was somewhat hypnotic and made my mind feel at ease for a brief moment.

"Is she pretty?" Rudi asked, to which I glanced back at him.

"Oh yeah, she's a pretty one, alright, blonde bombshell. But that's beside the point of why I want to find her and her father. The way she asked, the way she came to my office that day, she reminded me a lot of my mother..." I paused again, trailing off for a second as my mind replayed flashbacks of my poor mother, weeping in fear as she sat on a chair, scared and shaken, waiting for the wrath of my drunken father.

"I will be going back to my flat and back to work tomorrow. I am going to figure something out, making plans for this venture. I am off the case, but for now, I am alone in this matter. So that's good." I said, looking down at Rudi.

"Hey, maybe you can use some help? You never know what kinda shit you'll get into, and you'll need people like me to help you out of it?" Rudi offered. Of course, he helped me out a few times in tight spots and informed me of attempted hits. Rudi, the things he did and does to this day, for me, is a necessary evil that I've worked within this line of work. One couldn't be high and mighty and be a goodie-two-shoe about the world. No, that isn't street smarts and just naïve stupidity, just asking to be shot. Though we have our differences, I was for maintaining the law, yet I am seen as a bad cop now, and he is all about exploiting society with a kind word first, backed up by a gun and hidden knife up his sleeve.

Rudi is the only friend I can trust in situations like these, "Well, give me a day to make a plan, and you, my friend, gather up a list of supplies I want for this journey." I produced a small piece of paper with a list of items written down in red ink of precisely what I wanted to be gathered, as I slipped it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

"I will pay you no more than 400 bucks for this job. Call me when you have the supplies ready. Once everything is set and my bills paid and filed, I can continue investigating this case and travel toward Maine." I ordered Rudi as I give a firm pat on his back.